


Straight ahead, past Fury Road

by phantomas (sil)



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Post-Mad Max: Fury Road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sil/pseuds/phantomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First few steps in the future of The Citadel and its inhabitants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight ahead, past Fury Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valderys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/gifts).



**"Where must we go, we who wander this wasteland, in search of our better selves?"  
-The First History Man **

 

All roads lead to the same place, after a while. Max knows he's not driving in circles, and not going back on purpose _there's no going back, is there, no place to go back to, no people that remember you, everyone lost everything, at some point, and you can't go back to something that's not there anymore, can you?_ But there it is, the sprawl of lush green on top of the hard rock, against the dry, blue sky, and there he is, Max, not willing to really talk to anyone, to be with anyone, yet his feet have walked this way, once again.

There's a little cave, more like a cubbyhole, where Max manages to slip in when he's back. It's in the back of the main rocks formation, almost always in shadow. He slips in there, and at some point, when he wakes up, there would be food in a bowl at the entrance, a small flask of water. Some times he doesn't leave his cave for a few days, just sleeping and sitting near the entrance, arms crossed over knees, staring outside, at the activities blossoming there, the people still dressed in rags, but now there's a whisper of hope in their faces, a spring in their step. They walk, and their steps are going somewhere. There's no shuffling, anymore, no hesitant tracks.

That's because of Furiosa. Furiosa and her war sisters, and the remaining War Boys.

Max tries not to think of them.

Someone has left a pallet for him – or maybe someone else sleeps in the small cave. It doesn't matter. Max would just leave if someone came to reclaim this space. There's a whole world, out there, after all. After the Wasteland, and the roads.

He likes lying down and closing his eyes and listening. He listens to his heart, first, then to the flow of his blood in his veins. Then the outside murmurs reach his ears, and that's where he loses himself, and finally, finally, sleeps. Hearing people. Living people, calling to each other, working, surviving.

Perhaps that's why he always comes back here.

Out there, he only has the voices in his head, and they never shut up.

 

 

“ **And then it was clear, as a dry sky, that hope was a building, and foundations yet to be to found”**

**-The Third History Man**

 

“What you want to do with it?” the woman stood alongside Furiosa. It was not dark yet and there was just a breeze.

“Not up to me to decide.”

“Of course it is. Everyone is looking up to you. You're their new saviour.”

“Don't say that. Never say that.” Furiosa turned around and strode away, clenching and unclenching her fist without realising it, her mechanical arm hooked in her belt.

 

The Bullet Factory stood still behind Furiosa, its fires spent, its rumblings quietened, the dark smoke always surrounding it absent. It was almost unnatural, such an apparatus, and now it was lifeless, a machine-beast waiting for its servants to be back. It wasn't asleep and it wasn't dead. It felt..as if it was waiting.

 

The woman trotted after Furiosa, her legs shorter and older. “We can't just abandon it,” she said.

“Let them decide,” Furiosa's words came sharply through her teeth.

“Let them? They can barely function, those poor people. They're starved, thirsty, been too scared for too long. They don't care for that factory. But you should!”

 

Furiosa stopped and faced the woman. “Why, why should I care?” Her eyes were intense, her lips tight.

 

“Because you're the one who will need what that factory can make. And you know it.”

 

The two stared at each other. The older woman didn't really expect a reply. She was right, and she knew it. The Wasteland was out there, with all its monsters and nightmares. Furiosa and the Citadel would need that Bullet Factory sooner than anyone wished for.

 

The Factory's workers were a dark shape keeping close to it, slinking and lingering near it, incapable of leaving it, unable to dare The Citadel and its dwellers. Orphans hovering near the dead body of their parent.

 

“And yes, you'll need them, too,” the woman added.

Furiosa looked at them, dirty and bloody and dusty in the dark. They were people of The Citadel, too. She inhaled deeply, noisily. Looked at the Bullet Factory once more.

 

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

 

 

“ **How should we bear our burdens, with these empty arms, and broken hearts, and rim-filled cups?”**

**-The First History Woman**

 

_Which one, which one is mine, which one is yours, which one, which one, which one._

Those are the words circling round and round, whispered, murmured, ricocheting among the breeders, until they become a trickle, a dripping, slower and slower, and their minds follow instead the rhythm of the milk pumps' gears and pistons, and they fall into a torpor, a stupor, a malady of the soul.

They forget.

They forget their names, and only recall the procedures. The swelling of their bodies becomes a cycle like the high rise of the dunes out there, when the northern wind blows. It comes and goes, and the procedures are in between, before and after.

The procedures are necessary, for everyone's survival, so they go when they are told to, and lie down patiently while it happens, and it's never too long, and they can stare at the ceiling and rest on a blanket for the duration, and drink water afterward. The procedures are necessary, so when they feel the pains and the wetness between their legs, they lift their hands obediently and they go in the birthing room, and scream.

They drink their own milk without knowing it, and they get used to the hard metal strapping them down to the chair, holding their ankle to the walls. They get used to the pressure pain in their chests, and the pumping of their nipples turns into a far echo of screams and squalls, the little things taken away from them before they can hold them.

Some laugh, at times, for no reason. Some just sit. Some others cry until they're dry, and then they are taken away, to the resting room, but they never come back.

 

Some protest with nails and fists when the pumps are switched off.

No, they say, no, no, we have to feed our boys, they're out there, we have to feed them. It's necessary.

Others walk out and keep walking, out in the Wasteland.

Some look at the War Boys.

 

 

“ **Scarcity would blind us, and the wasteland still called, and from many, only a few.”**

**-The Fourth History Woman**

 

_I am born but not alive_

_my song sings_

_I climb and climb to reach Valhalla_

_I am body and parts_

_pistons engines_

 

_skin-scarred and war-like_

_I climb and climb to reach Valhalla_

_miracles mechanics_

_my vehicle my ride_

_my steering wheel_

 

_I'll use my fingers to cling on_

_I'll feed the scoops with guzzolene_

_I'll man the guns and climb up higher_

 

_to the pinnacle_

_the driving seat_

_half life to full_

_I climb and climb to reach Valhalla_

 

The chorus echoes in the nights, especially when the wind is down. It's never too close, although they all know some of them sneak in The Citadel when it's dark, or in the full light of the midday sun, when even their pale skin is not visible in the glare. They still need blood, don't they?

The cars' engines roar and roar, when they are not singing.

The first convoy directed to Gas Town never arrived. Furiosa knows better, now, and the convoys are always armed.

When they catch one, they don't kill him. It seems cruel. The ones they catch, they close them in a cave. They give them food, and water. And someone holds their hands during the last moments.

 

They know they mostly need to wait. There are already so many dangers in the Wasteland, but the remaining War Boys, the ones that ran away, with their engines and their scars and their white powder, won't be one for long.

 

\---

 

The blotch of bright green vegetation shines from a distance, a treasure ferociously guarded. Max sleeps in his cave, and knows he won't stay. The Citadel is for the living, now, finally, and he's not sure about what he is. But for now, a moment.

 

A moment before The Wasteland calls.

**Author's Note:**

> Such a rich world, and such intriguing characters. My style tend to the minimalist, hope it works!


End file.
